


the ice is getting thinner

by clayisforgirls



Series: the ice is getting thinner [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Retirement Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Roger won't lie to the one person that's never written him off, the one person that's had the belief he's needed so many times"</p><p>On the Wimbledon tour, the guide tells an anecdote of Pete Sampras sitting on the seats on Centre Court the night before playing the Wimbledon finals. Takes place during the World Tour Finals in 2010. Originally posted in November 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ice is getting thinner

Keys to Wimbledon are hard – no, Roger corrects, impossible – to come by, yet when he'd met Andy outside the back gates he'd produced one as if they were common as pennies. Text from Andy had come too soon after the defeat to ignore it; though Roger has a match tomorrow it's not the early one. Even if it was, he'd still have come. There are very few things he denies Andy Roddick, and most of them happen on a tennis court.

They'd kept to the shadows as they'd walked through the grounds, Andy's hand curved into his own as he'd been pulled towards Centre Court, up endless flights of stairs and into the rafters. The roof would protect them from the rain if it was raining, but tonight it's just bitterly cold; the wind whips around the court, seeping through his coat and gloves and instinctively he huddles closer to Andy as they slide into a pair of plastic covered seats.

Andy's hand is still wrapped tight around his own, now squeezing so hard that Roger feels like his fingers might break. Knows that Andy will talk when he wants to; for now he strokes his thumb over the back of the American's glove, and watches the curve of Andy's mouth curl into the hint of a smile.

Other than that, his face is impassive; Roger can make out the stoic expression but it's too dark to read eyes that are literally the windows to Andy's soul, at least on the court. Too often is his heart open for the world to see, and too often Roger's seen it crushed at his own hands. Watched as Andy tried to make light of a bad situation in countless finals and one where he couldn't keep it together as much as he'd tried, heartbreak apparent for anyone who cared to look.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this." When the words come they're soft, though they cut through the bitterness of the air like a knife. "You- you're still Roger Federer. I'm just that one slam wonder that no-one will remember the name of in years to come."

"Andy-" he starts, because Andy's not that; he's never been that, at least not to Roger. But Andy won't have any of it, just a tighter grip around his hand.

"It's not going to happen," he carries on, voice quieter than before, grip still suffocating around Roger's hand and all he wants to do is wrap an arm around Andy and pull him close, but Andy won't let him. There's a slight movement to his other hand, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the grass spread out in front of them and oh-

Finally, he gets what Andy means, that he won't win another slam, that he won't win here. There aren't words to tell him that one day he'll hold that trophy like Roger has, because Roger won't lie to the one person that's never written him off, the one person that's had the belief he's needed so many times throughout the last few years.

"Roger, I- I can't be Marat. I don't want to be. Eight," and Andy half-laughs though it's almost closer to tears, the first real emotion other than nothing that Roger's seen this evening, "eight I can deal with. Eighteen, or, I don't-" Choked sob from Andy, half hidden in his other hand; he tries to disguise it with words but they barely make a sound in the stadium. "There's nothing left for me anymore."

Oh, Roger thinks, and his heart drops like a stone; he uncurls his fingers from the American's despite the nervous glance from him and presses his palm over Andy's chest. Over his heart, and if they'd been anywhere else, having any other conversation Andy would tease him for being a romantic; right now, he hopes it's the one thing that convinces Andy to stay. Life without Andy on tour is almost unthinkable. He's almost too used to having him there to make a joke that Roger laughs at no matter what, to wish him a quiet good luck in the corridor before his match or to be on the other end of a text message that doesn't quite say everything either of them want.

"You will always have me," he says, leaning into Andy and pressing a kiss to his jaw. He feels the American grin rather than sees it, and then Andy brushes their noses together and they're kissing. It's soft, gentle, almost chaste, but he can feel the smile resting on Andy's lips that hasn't been there the whole evening. Andy cups his jaw, the back of his neck, fingers trailing over the bump at the top of his spine that Andy knows makes him shiver, and he does. It's not because of the cold, but Andy presses closer anyway.

Centre Court has to be one of the least comfortable places they've kissed; it's disappointing. Roger's always thought that kissing on Centre Court would bring the same magic the tournament does but it's almost awkward, side by side on the plastic seats. Impossible not to touch each other, though Roger doesn't mind that so much, and their knees knock as Andy shifts, swiping a tongue over his lips and Roger can only comply until their tongues slide against each other in a rhythm they have long perfected.

Andy's eyes catch the light as they pull apart; Roger can see the defeat, something he's seen too often for his liking, but this time Andy's looking at him as though he's everything. Heat rises in his cheeks and he's glad Andy can't see it in this light, and he brushes a kiss over the American's cheek before he pulls him close, arm around his shoulders. Andy does one better, his feet resting on the seats in front as he smiles at Roger – a real smile, not the fake ones that Andy does for the cameras – and interlinks their fingers again, resting his head against him.

"You'll always have me too," Andy mumbles into Roger's neck, and though the air is freezing, with Andy by his side he feels warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Death Cab for Cutie song of the same name.


End file.
